


at the mirk and midnight hour

by onetrueobligation, pyladic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: 1805 era, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrueobligation/pseuds/onetrueobligation, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: "Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world."Magic is a powerful, explosive force, difficult to contain, and with disastrous consequences if it isn’t handled with extreme care.





	1. Chapter 1

At the age of eleven, Princess Elena Kuragina is smarter than both of her brothers combined and she knows it. Papa knows it too. By the time she’s seven, when Lito is already off at school and Anatole is running wild through the house, hated and fawned over in equal measure by the family servants, Papa is taking her upstairs to his study every afternoon to teach her what, by rights, should be her brother’s birthright. She studies from the books he gives her, and recites incantations over and over until she gets every syllable exactly right. Magic is a powerful, explosive force, difficult to contain, and with disastrous consequences if it isn’t handled with extreme care.

Toto is a year younger than her, and soon, he’ll be sent to Paris, to school, to live with Lito and study there. Lelya knows even without stopping to think that he won’t try. He’s not a stupid boy, not really, but put him in an entirely new place, and he’ll be preening and peacocking for anyone who’ll look his way.

Lelya itches to be sent in his place. The first time she’d done magic was six months ago. In a fit of temper, she’d sent a teacup flying across the room, shattering against the fireplace. The power was intoxicating, and it hasn’t stopped giving her that same thrill in the months since. But only Toto will get to go. She knows that. Families like theirs send their sons abroad to study, to come back and take high ranking positions. Their daughters stay home and learn to be charming, and get married, and be everything she doesn’t want to be.

So when Papa calls her into his study one afternoon, she’s expecting the lessons to stop. Why teach a daughter something she’s only going to have to forget as soon as she can be sent out into society?

Lelya sits on the little stool in front of his desk, spine ramrod straight, just like he taught her. She keeps her eyes on her shiny leather shoes, not daring to catch his gaze, even if there’s something about his bearing that feels like a smile. Papa’s smiles are infrequent and hard to earn, his praise impossible. 

“How do you like your studies, Elena?” His voice is gentle. He lifts his teacup to take a sip from it, but Lelya doesn’t allow herself to give into the temptation to look him in the eye. He wouldn’t like that.

“I like them very well, Papa.” Maybe he’ll let her keep studying, even if she is going to be left behind. It’s not hurting anyone, really, and if it’s keeping her out of trouble – 

“How would you like to continue them?”

She looks up. She can’t help it. There’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his eyes, which is the only thing that’s encouraging about any of this. Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe he’s teasing her, and she’s only playing into whatever trap he’s laid by answering. But Lelya loves magic, loves how powerful it makes her feel. If there’s any chance she’ll get to keep chasing it, she has no choice but to try.

“I’d like that very much.” _Please_ , she thinks clenching her hands in the fabric of her skirt, shimmering and satiny, _let me have this_.

He sets the teacup down, lips quirking. “Then you shall.” Before Lelya has time to get over the shock, to close her mouth from where it’s fallen open, he continues. “Your brother leaves tomorrow for school. You’ll be going with him, to keep an eye on him, and pursue your own studies.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. To be allowed to study at a real school, to learn from the best teachers there are, is a privilege she never could have dreamed of possessing. 

“Thank you, Papa,” she says, a little breathless, wide eyed, her heart racing. Lelya smiles, wide and innocent, and Papa smiles back at her. He even reaches over to ruffle her curls, pinned back in a hard-won order. 

“Make me proud, zolotse.”

She will. How can she do anything else?

Now, days later, after a harrowing boat voyage to France, they’re arriving to their first day of class. The evening prior, they’d moved in with Lito, who’d seemed equally amused and contemptuous at Anatole, who immediately broke a teacup. Typical of him. And today, washed and combed within an inch of their lives by the servants, they’re to start learning.

Lelya pushes down her nerves and walks in through the high, arching, marble doorway, fussing with her skirts. Anatole is already ahead of her by several paces, grinning up at another boy. He’s dark haired, with sharp eyes, a hazy green. About her age, maybe a year older. Already, Lelya can see why Anatole is staring. His clothes are older than theirs, several years out of fashion, if they were ever in fashion at all. They’re patched in a few places, disguised as well as possible with tiny stitches in a practiced hand. Might be his own. He’s probably here on scholarship. With clothes like those, there’s no way his parents can afford to send him here on their own.

“Look, Lelya, he’s so dirty,” Anatole says, voice cheerful and far too loud for this nearly empty hallways. Lelya reaches forward, meaning to hush him, to pull him away before this boy takes offense.

She’s too late. The boy turns, eyes narrowing, books clutched to his chest. “What did you say to me?” His voice is low and too calm by far.

Anatole – and she loves her brother, even when he’s being an idiot – is too stupid to hear the danger in his voice. “Your clothes,” he says helpfully, a little louder. “Do they have rips in them? What’s that stain on your jacket? Is your family poor? Why do you study here if you’re poor?”

He sets down the books carefully, and Lelya notices the rips in the cover and the stain on the binding, but the pages are kept careful and pristine. Before she can take another step forward to try and mediate, the boy cracks his knuckles, and then he’s knocked Anatole off his feet with one blow. They’re both shouting, Anatole’s nose starting to bleed as the other boy beats him into the ground.

People are starting to stare. Lelya doesn’t think twice before hurrying closer. “Stop it!” she insists, but neither of them seem particularly disposed to listen to her. This is exactly what Papa sent her here to prevent, and if she doesn’t, this could cast a stain on their family, and then she’ll be sent home –

She can’t let that happen. Lelya winds up and lands a solid kick to the boy’s stomach, the pointy tips of her shoes digging in. He lets out a pained sound and falls down on his back, eyes wide.

“What was that for?” He sounds genuinely confused, as if trying to kill her brother didn’t merit a good kick, or worse. He brushes himself off and looks Anatole over with a critical eye. “He started it.”

Of course he did. She wasn’t expecting anything else, not from Anatole, who seems to think he can do no wrong. Lelya hands him a handkerchief out of habit, and watches as he presses it to his bleeding nose with a wince.

“What’s your name?” she asks, turning back to the other boy. Chances are, she won’t know him at all. As if their family would allow them to associate with someone like this. 

He straightens up, making a noticeable effort to look older, more refined than he seems. If he weren’t pouting, it might be more convincing. “I’m Fyodor Dolokhov,” he says, with the confidence of someone who knows that it’ll mean absolutely nothing to whoever hears it.

“I am Princess Elena Vasilievna Kuragin,” she says proudly, exactly as Papa told her. “This is my brother Anatole. I see you are already acquainted.” She folds her arms across her chest, resisting the urge to stamp her foot. That’s not ladylike. Papa wouldn’t approve. Lelya jerks her chin at them. “Shake hands.”

“What?” Anatole exclaims, and Fyodor looks as if he’d prefer to swallow a live toad. “With him? No!”

Lelya’s expression hardens. “Shake hands. Now.” It’s up to her to keep Anatole from getting himself into more trouble than he can handle, and it looks as if she’s going to have her work cut out for her.

They look at each other, then her, and grudgingly, Fyodor sticks his hand out to him. Anatole considers it for a long minute before taking it. Lelya doesn’t miss how Fyodor squeezes just a little too hard, and how Anatole does his best to get blood on his cuffs. 

Well. They’ve got to start somewhere.

“There. Now you’re friends.” From the way they’re looking at each other, she can tell it’s going to be a little more difficult than that. Lelya bites at her lip and reaches for her brother’s hand. “Come on, Toto. We’re going to be late.”

Anatole shoots a parting glare back at the other boy, this Fyodor Dolokhov, and as she pulls him to the first class of their new life, she swears she can feel Fyodor’s eyes on her spine, burning into her the whole way.


	2. Chapter 2

Otradnoe is beautiful in the springtime. Outside, the world comes to life, and consequently, so does the Rostov household. The children spend their days in the gardens or out in the countryside, laughing and playing from dawn to dusk. The older ones, Nikolai and Vera, as well as their friend Boris, prefer to stay indoors, talking with the adults in the drawing room.

It’s a quieter sort of day, and the count and countess are sat in the drawing room with Princess Karagina and her daughter when Natasha and Sonya run inside, giggling and whispering among themselves. Behind them, Petya, the youngest, follows, chasing them as fast as his little legs will carry him. They turn, see him, and quickly run off again.

The countess shakes her head and clicks her tongue, mostly for the sake of Marya Drubetskaya, who is watching the girls with a disapproving expression and tugging her daughter a little closer. “Those girls,” Natalya remarks, glancing over at her husband. “You ought to be more strict with them, Ilya.”

Ilya gives an uncertain laugh and leans back in his chair. “Where’s the harm in it?” he says, eyes darting to their guest. Natalya shakes her head again and returns to the conversation.

The children, meanwhile, are in the conservatory. It’s a bright, clear day, and the sunlight streams through the glass roof. Natasha’s eyes are gleaming, and she can’t seem to stop laughing, though Sonya keeps trying to hush her.

“Show me!” Petya complains, standing a few feet away from where the two girls are huddled together. “You said you were doing magic. I want to see!”

“No,” Natasha retorts, her lower lip jutting out. “Go away, Petya.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll tell!”

Petya pouts and folds his arms across his chest. “I won’t tell,” he mumbles. “Not if you show me.”

Natasha sighs, regarding him with her lips pressed in a thin line. “You have to promise, Petya,” she says sternly. “You mustn’t tell. If you do… I’ll hex you!” She grins and laughs again, and soon all three of them are laughing again.

“I won’t tell!” Petya says again, more insistently. “Show me!”

Natasha meets Sonya’s eyes for a moment, then smiles, satisfied. “Well. Alright. If you promise.”

“I do! I promise!”

Natasha stands, smoothing her skirt, and goes to crouch by a little flowerpot of rosebuds. “Watch closely,” she says, crooking one finger. She focuses all her energy on the little flowers, and then, with a grin, begins to recite some gibberish under her breath — useless for the spell, but helpful when it comes to impressing Petya.

A tingling sensation runs through her, from her fingertips to her toes. She lets out a breath of air, exhilarated at the feeling. Magic, especially magic of this kind, is new to her, and the feeling of raw power that comes with it makes her feel almost giddy. Most of all, though, it makes her feel alive.

She waits a few more moments, feeling Petya and Sonya with their eyes on her expectantly. Then, before their eyes, the flowers begin to grow. They bloom right in front of them, their petals tilted toward Natasha’s face as though she is the sun. She lets out a delighted, triumphant laugh, and is pleased to see that Petya seems enraptured by the movement of the petals.

“There,” Natasha says. “I told you I could do it, didn’t I?”

Though Petya’s smile is fading, and Sonya nudges her shoulder. “Natasha,” she says quietly, eyes on the flowers.

The brilliant colours of the roses are fading to brown as quickly as they’d bloomed. The petals begin to fall, one by one, shriveled and dead. Natasha’s eyes widen, as she quickly realises that she has no idea how to put a stop to the spell.

“Stop!” she says frantically, desperately, but the flowers don’t listen to her. Her eyes well up with childish, petulant tears, the thrill of power replaced only with a sensation of dread. “Stop it, I say!”

But the last few flowers wither and fall at her feet, and all that remains are the brown, shriveled stalks.

“Oh, Natasha,” Sonya sighs, when her cousin begins to cry into her shoulder. Petya, clearly more than a little shaken by what he’s just seen, flees the conservatory, his tiny feet pattering away.

 _Why did it happen?_ Natasha asks herself. _What did I do wrong? I never meant to do any harm. I only like the feeling of magic, that’s all!_

Sonya pats her hair as she cries, though Natasha finds herself frightened, more frightened than she’s ever been where magic is concerned. This isn’t fun anymore.

Her mother finds out that evening. Natasha isn’t very surprised — Petya has never been able to keep his mouth shut for long — and she finds she isn’t even angry. She’s too shocked and hurt to feel anything but miserable.

At first she expects her mother to be angry with her, but when Natasha confesses to it and begins to cry again, the countess simply sighs and pats her hair. Natasha flings her arms around her waist, clinging to her. She only wants to be comforted.

“Hush, now, Tasha,” the countess says, and Natasha looks up at her with wide, dark eyes wet with tears. She walks her over to the settee and sits her down, brushing her tears away.

“Tell me why we don’t use street magic,” the countess continues calmly.

Natasha blinks up at her. The truth is, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand why families like theirs are only allowed to use certain spells, to learn certain charms. She doesn’t understand why the old magic, alternative magic, is so frowned upon.

“Because it’s unseemly,” she replies.

“Yes,” the countess says, with her weary smile. “And because it’s dangerous, as you learned today. Young girls like you shouldn’t be playing with that sort of magic. Peasant magic is beneath us, darling.”

Natasha nods along, though she doesn’t understand at all. Street magic, the kind of magic that earns disapproving looks and hushed whispers, sends a thrill through her that regular magic, the magic she learns from tutors and her father, doesn’t.

“I know, Mama,” she says quietly, not meeting her eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

* * *

Pierre wakes with a headache, and closes his eyes at the sunlight streaming through the windows. He’s in the Kuragins’ apartment, which doesn’t come as much of a surprise — he’s stayed here plenty of times before. The Kuragins seem to enjoy his company, and he enjoys theirs, and ever since the older brother went home to Petersburg, they’ve had a spare room saved almost always just for him.

“Pierre?” a voice calls, and then there’s a knock at the door. Pierre groans in response, the only sort of acknowledgement he can manage at this point.

“Pierre,” the voice says again, a little more exasperated. “The servants have breakfast ready. You ought to be awake.”

Pierre gives another heavy groan, but this time, he manages to shove the blankets roughly away and stumble out of bed. He fumbles blindly for his dressing gown, then wraps it around himself before taking his spectacles from the dresser and sliding them onto his nose. Despite this, everything still looks a little fuzzy.

“Pierre, you brute, I won’t ask you again. Come and eat something, won’t you?”

Pierre sighs and parts the curtains, wincing a little as light floods the room, then lumbers over to the door and opens it.

He’s met at once by the smell of freshly baked bread, which makes him feel a little better. He’s distracted, however, by the stony glare in his direction, and he can’t help but blush. When he’s this dazed, still half-asleep, it’s hard not to be caught by surprise at the beauty of the woman in front of him. She’s his own age, with a sharp tongue and sharper eyes, and though she can’t have woken much earlier than he, not a single hair on her head is out of place, and she looks as bright-eyed and awake as ever. This shouldn’t make him stare as much as it does.

“I—“

He can’t get out much more of a sentence beyond that, but Hélène conveniently holds up a hand and cuts him off. “I’ve already heard all about what you’ve been getting yourself into,” she says with a hand on her hip and an eyebrow raised. Her expression remains stern, though her eyes are dancing with a playful, teasing light. It makes Pierre’s stomach feel funny. “Now. Breakfast has already been made, and I’ve no doubt you’re hungry. You always seem to be. Eat something, will you? And then we’ll find out just how much trouble you’ve gotten into.”

Pierre watches, bewildered, as she turns and makes her way over to the table, sitting down and pulling a plate of breakfast close to her. He shakes his head to clear it and strains to remember the events of the previous night. He remembers drinking, at least, drinking quite a bit, and the school, something to do with the school — but beyond that, it makes his head ache to think.

He shuffles over to the table, locking eyes with the young man sitting there and giving him a nod without smiling. Fyodor does the same. Pierre isn’t particularly surprised to see him here — after all, he’s been close to the Kuragins for years, now, almost as long as Pierre has known them. And the Kuragins, being the sort of people they were, had of course let him stay there as much as he liked. It was certainly an improvement from staying at the school, at any rate.

Even less of a surprise was the sound of a violin being plucked coming from the window. Pierre glances over to see a fair-haired boy, a year or two younger than himself, sitting in the windowsill and glancing down at the city underneath with a vague smile, the violin tucked under his chin.

“Toto,” Hélène says with a heavy sigh, and his head snaps up. “Come away from there, would you? You’ll fall, and then I’ll have to sweep up what’s left of you, and it’ll be gruesome.”

Fyodor snickers and ducks his head to hide it.

Anatole purses his lips and reluctantly swings his legs back inside, standing up and draping his arms over Hélène’s shoulders. It’s remarkable, Pierre thinks, how similar the Kuragins are. It’s so early, and yet they both look as bright and energetic as though they’ve been awake for hours. Do they sleep at all, he finds himself wondering? It would make sense, he thinks, if two creatures as otherworldly as the Kuragins weren’t really human at all.

“Don’t think you aren’t in trouble, too,” Fyodor says, looking over at Anatole, who takes a seat at the table and pokes his tongue out at him. Fyodor scoffs and flicks his ear. “You’re at fault as much as the rest of us, you remember.”

Anatole scowls. “Lena, he’s being rude. We ought to kick him out.”

Hélène flicks his ear in response to that.

Pierre scrubs at his eyes as he sits down, again trying to remember what exactly happened to them all. “Wait a moment,” he says tiredly, holding up one hand. “I don’t understand. What happened? What trouble are you talking about?”

Fyodor and Hélène exchange a grimace. Anatole, on the other hand, grins broadly.

“You don’t remember?” he says cheerfully. “We — you — hexed the headmaster’s office.”

Pierre blinks at him, then turns to look at Hélène. She raises an eyebrow and nods at him. He groans.

“Not just a normal hex, either,” Anatole continues brightly. “Street magic. Where’d you learn that, eh? And why didn’t you teach me?”

Pierre scrubs at his eyes and tries to remember. Street magic? Where would he have gotten something like that from? He’s never gone near it, too preoccupied with his studies and too worried about what his father might think of it. Besides, anyone using that sort of magic in the school risked expulsion. He’d never dare—!

Fyodor clears his throat, and Pierre glances up.

“That may have been my fault,” he says, a little sheepishly, and doesn’t look any of them in the eye.

Anatole lets out a delighted laugh and claps his hands together, as though this is all some show put on solely for his entertainment. Fyodor kicks him underneath the table.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t there,” he snaps, and Anatole falls silent. “Or that you weren’t the one talking me into doing it in the first place.”

Of course, Pierre thinks. Fyodor has always been drawn to street magic, ever since he was a boy. It’s what he was raised on, and it’s his family’s way. Never mind that the school forbids it. None of them have ever paid much attention to rules, and after how much they’d had to drink last night — it’s no wonder they’d all ended up doing something like this.

“Do they know it was us?” Pierre asks, blinking curiously up at Hélène. She studies him for a moment, expression haughty and amused.

“Not yet,” she says after a moment, her lips curling up into a smile. “But I’d advise you to be careful. You and Fyodor — heaven knows what might happen if they find you were responsible.”

Pierre chews on his lip, lost in thought. Suddenly, he’s not so hungry anymore. His father paid for this education for him solely because he knew he had the potential to succeed here. And now — if he were sent away… Where would he be? He’d be no one again. Disgraced, even. He can’t let that happen.

“We’ll be careful,” Pierre says, and looks Fyodor in the eye. On that they can agree, it seems.

“Well, I should hope so,” Hélène sniffs, and gets to her feet.

Pierre doesn’t miss the way Fyodor’s eyes linger on her as she walks away — he never does. He’s watched Fyodor stare for years, now, and Pierre is certain Fyodor has seen him staring the same way. He and Fyodor often argue, and in fact, Pierre is a little frightened of him, but despite their differences, they seem to be able to understand one another when it comes to wanting something neither of them can have.

It’s something, he supposes, that the Kuragins will never be able to understand. Perhaps it’s why he admires Fyodor, as frightened as he is of him. Pierre, an illegitimate son, and Fyodor, from a poor family with no name and no connections. They both understand their place — and they both know that there are things men like them can never have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can tell who wrote the chapter you're reading by the way we spell "colour"


	3. Chapter 3

The voices don’t start until after Mary’s grandmother died. Princess Viktoria Bolkonskaya was an odd woman, to whom society didn’t pay much attention. She’d been the daughter of a well-off family of little importance, with some minor title, earl or count or something of no note. Why she’d been able to marry into a family like the Bolkonskys, no one could say for certain.

Mary’s memories of her are fuzzy and indistinct, these days. The clearest image of her grandmother she can summon is of an older, harried, woman, with dark circles under her eyes and her hair in a state of slight disarray, just past the bounds of propriety. She’d been prone to fits, too. There were times she wouldn’t be able to leave her bed for days on end. But every day, often several times a day, she’d have Mary sent for to make sure she was praying.

“God is in everything, Marya,” she’d say, her voice rasping and harsh in her throat. Her dark hair hung in tendrils around her face, coming loose from her clumsy updo. Mary would look down at the incense smoking on the bedside table, and nod, and say a few prayers before fleeing the room.

It got to be a habit, after a while. Believing in it came later.

Princess Viktoria Bolkonskaya had been a clever woman in her younger days, by all accounts. After the birth of her young son, Nikolai, Mary’s father, plague had struck Moscow, killing tens of thousands by the time it was done. There were rumors, too, that this plague was caused by something more than human, that there was something ungodly in it. People didn’t go out except for church, sending servants for everything else, if they could afford to. But the sickness came for the rich in equal measure, and people started whispering of demons, of something called from hell to punish them all.

Princess Viktoria Bolkonskaya had a young son and a husband to be thinking of. She wasn’t going to stand for that.

Mary learns all of this later, after her grandmother is dead and buried, and the voices are calling her to God’s light as well. She tries to reconcile the stories with the woman she knew, and finds she can’t quite make the disparate pieces fit.

The plague disappeared as quickly as it had come, and no one ever really know what Mary’s grandmother had traded away to make it happen. They only knew about the curse. Any Bolkonsky woman, whether she come to the family through blood or marriage, would not live through her childbed.

Princess Viktoria Bolkonskaya would have no more children.

As the story went, no one would dare marry their daughter to Mary’s father, but eventually he found a wife, and when she survived Andrey’s birth, nobody knew what to think. As much as the curse had brought down fear and revulsion on the family reputation, without it, they were more oddity than anything.

The dowager princess attended Mary’s birth, and when Mary outlived her mother, Viktoria’s expression grew troubled, and that night, she started dropping a line of salt outside her door. 

But now, she is dead, and the night of her burial, the voices start up in Mary’s head. They’re saints, angels, they tell her, and they’re going to help her lift the curse on her family. And why shouldn’t she believe them? After all, God is in everything.

***

It’s late, the evening before an examination tomorrow that he has to pass, and Anatole is doing a mazurka on his very last nerve. He’s hardly doing anything out of the ordinary. Just sitting there, drinking, chattering away to Elena. Meanwhile, Fedya is staring at his textbook, starting his third readthrough of the same page without absorbing a word of it.

It’s infuriating, is what it is. It’s all very well for Anatole. Fedya isn’t sure he’s ever seen him crack open their textbooks in the five years he’s been here. And it’s not as if he himself could really be accused of being entirely invested in his education. It’s just that – well. Schools like this are expensive. He’s barely hanging on here, and if he loses his patronage, there’s no way his mother will be able to afford to keep him here. 

He has to get his education. He has to keep his family supported, and being at a school this prestigious puts him in the way of wealthy, influential people. People like Anatole Kuragin.

Anatole turns his bright eyes on him, glancing at his book. “Have a drink, Fedya,” he says, lips curling upwards. “Have a little fun. You can’t stay buried in that old thing forever.”

“You do know we’re taking the same examination tomorrow?” he says, turning the page, not bothering to look up, to look him in the eye. He won’t give Anatole the satisfaction of thinking he’s winning.

He waves a hand idly. “Oh, hush. I’ll do brilliantly. Just wait and see.” Anatole reaches over and drums his long, pale fingers on the page, right over the paragraph Fedya was just about to start reading. “Come on. Have a drink with me and Lena. Don’t be so much like Pierre.”

Across the room, Pierre looks up from his own book, fussing with his spectacles. “What?”

“Nothing, Petrushka,” Anatole says, not taking his eyes off of Fedya. “Why don’t you go get us another bottle of vodka? Fedya’s going to join us.”

Pierre hems and haws for a moment, then sets his book down and goes out of the room. Fedya follows him out of the corner of his eye, then turns his attention back to his book. Pierre Bezukhov has never really made sense to him, as much as they’re similar, both poor eldest sons here when by all rights, they shouldn’t be. Only Pierre is the illegitimate favorite son of a high-born father, whereas he’s a gutter rat cruising on an unbelievable stroke of good luck until it runs out beneath him. By all rights, they should be closer than they are. And to a certain extent, he wants to be. Pierre seems like the sort of person who could be useful to know, some time down the line. But he’s never quite sure where he stands.

And yet Anatole and his sister seem to prefer him to Pierre. Anatole especially. What right does he have to be ordering his peers around like that?

Sometimes, it’s enough to make him wonder exactly Anatole would treat him if he didn’t seem to find him so interesting.

Tonight, though, he wants to push the limits, see how much he can take back.

“I don’t want to drink,” he says, and pulls his book away from Anatole’s hands.

Anatole pulls back, expression twisting to confusion. He moves a little closer, draping himself across Fedya’s shoulders, and he has to look away, has to force himself to stay still and not swallow down his reaction. Anatole is warm and solid against his side, which shouldn’t be important except that it is. He takes Fedya’s hands and cups them in his own, rubbing some warmth back into them.

Fedya briefly considers ripping them away and punching Anatole square in the jaw. What does he think he’s playing at?

“Then at least do the magic,” he says, eyes going wider, pleading. “Please, Fedya? I want to see. Lena wants to see, too.”

Pierre opens the door and sets a bottle of cheap vodka firmly down on the end table and reclaims his seat in the overstuffed armchair he’d hauled home one afternoon all by himself. The thing had to weigh at least fifty pounds, and it creaked interminably, but none of them could convince him to get rid of it, or move it themselves, so it stayed.

“Are you going to do that – that thing?” Pierre wiggles his fingers and pours himself a glass of vodka. “You know. The thing.”

“You know we’re not supposed to,” Fedya says. This feel like the tipping point of something he doesn’t want to go over the edge of. This kind of magic, the kind he was raised on, isn’t something they’re supposed to even know about. Good young men, the kind he’s trying to be, certainly don’t practice commoner’s magic like this. What would the headmaster say? He’d likely be sent straight home, to scratch a living for his mother and sisters off of rock.

But they’re all looking at him like they expect it, and there’s a smile hiding in the corner of Elena’s mouth, and in the end, that’s what decides it for him. He’s been trying to coaxe that smile out of her for months. He’s not about to give up the first opportunity he’s been given.

Fedya sighs and rubs his palms together. “Fine. But if I get sent to Siberia, I’m fully expecting you all to bribe someone to get me back.”

Anatole sits up straighter, eyes bright, twins spots of color on the high points of his cheeks. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He says it nonchalantly, as if it’s a matter of a morning’s work, or a short note on the right desk to reclaim someone from prison.

He rolls his eyes and raises his left hand, pressing his fingertips together. This is the tricky part, the focusing of power. It’s the part he’s always struggled with. Since he was a boy, he’s had no trouble with the amount of power he can call down. It’s making it do what he wants. It’s a little like trying to direct a flood through a sieve.

Fedya feels the familiar warmth in the pit of his chest, and slowly, a tiny flame starts to glow in the palm of his hand. He focuses, and it grows a little, brighter and brighter, until the dim room might as well be in the sun at midday. He flexes his hand, and it floats up to the ceiling, casting glimmering pinpricks of light to every corner of the room. Slowly, they fall to about a foot above their heads.

Anatole looks up with wide eyes as one settles on the tip of his nose. “That’s nice,” he says softly.

But Fedya hardly hears him. He’s too busy watching Elena, the tiny lights floating above her hair, lighting her up with a faint glow that seems almost ethereal. She raises one hand to try to touch, but her fingers pass through the dots of light as if they aren’t there at all. She looks over to meet Fedya’s gaze, lips curling upwards into a wondering smile.

Fedya feels something in his chest go tight and hot, and he looks back down at his book, cheeks burning.

“They’re not going to light the place on fire, are they?” There’s Pierre, anxious and ponderous as ever. Fedya has to hide a smile of his own as he returns his attention back to his book.

“No,” he says, and turns the page. “They’ll be alright. And now, I hope you’ll all let me have a little peace, hmm?” After all, he hasn’t got the time to play childish games like this. He has a future to be thinking of, and this kind of magic isn’t a part of it.

“Alright, alright.” Anatole reaches for the bottle and gives him a smile. “But I think you’re missing out, eh?”

Maybe so. But that’s the kind of sacrifices he’s called to make. Anatole, for all that he’s born to wealth and privilege, can never understand that kind of commitment. But what does that matter? He has his family’s name to back him up. Chances are, he’ll never have to work for anything.

“I’ll drink tomorrow night,” he promises. 

The next day, he barely scrapes by on his examination, but after a long letter from Vassily Kuragin, Anatole passes with flying colors.


	4. Chapter 4

Nikolai loves Sonya. 

He loves her far more than he ought to, and far less than she deserves. It frightens him a little, her love for him. Her fierce devotion is something he doubts he can ever return. 

He loves Sonya. He does. But Nikolai is happy being free. When Sonya talks of marriage and children and a future, he can’t help but feel nauseous, and then feel guilty for it. They’re young, aren’t they? Can’t things change? 

And that’s only the beginning. He sees the way his mother’s expression hardens when she sees the two of them talking, the way she meets his eyes disapprovingly before looking away again. He knows perfectly well why she’s so unhappy with the two of them, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever agree with her. She’d much prefer he struck up the same sort of a relationship with Julie Karagina or one of those other rich heiresses. 

But Nikolai loves Sonya. Perhaps too much, perhaps not enough, but he loves her. And damn what his mother, or society, or the church, or anybody else says about it. 

After all, it isn’t her fault she was born like that. 

He knows Sonya doesn’t want the family’s pity, but Nikolai can’t help feeling sorry for her. He remembers when they were young children, when he and Vera were just beginning to learn how to use their magic, and how Sonya would sit in the corner with her head down while their governess patted her shoulder and murmured, _there, there, Sofya. You’ll find your magic soon enough._

But months went by, and then years, and while Nikolai and Vera began to study magic and learn how to control it, Sonya never showed the slightest sign of magical talent. 

As she grew older, into a young woman, Nikolai couldn’t help but notice the whispers and the stares when ever they went out into society. People said that there was something wrong with her, something indecent about her, and soon the scorn moved to the Rostov family themselves. Nikolai remembers his mother arguing with him, insisting that she wanted Sonya out of the house, that she gave the family a bad name. But Sonya has stayed all this time, and Nikolai isn’t ever going to let her leave, no matter what his mother says. 

He loves Sonya.

He loves her. 

He just wishes he weren’t so afraid.

***

Every now and then, Anatole will listen to Pierre talk about his homesickness and wonder how anyone could prefer Russia over this. He’s here in Paris, with his sister and his two closest friends, spending his days ignoring his tutors and his evenings laughing and drinking at parties wherever he can find them. 

Why Pierre and Dolokhov seem so absorbed in their studies, he simply can’t understand. At least Pierre can be persuaded to cheer up a little once there’s a bottle of vodka in the room, but Anatole can hardly ever convince Dolokhov to put away his textbooks and share a drink with them. 

Not until Hélène speaks up, that is. 

Privately, Anatole finds he enjoys the moments he spends with Dolokhov. It’s been a long time since they’d fought in the school’s corridor as children, and since then, Anatole’s fondness for him has grown. He likes Dolokhov’s cleverness, likes the way he sees things, likes the way he’s a little more coarse than the rest of them, a little more untamed. It’s a stark contrast to Anatole’s usual world, and there’s something a little thrilling about it. 

He just wishes Dolokhov didn’t have eyes only for Hélène. 

It doesn’t bother Anatole. Really, it doesn’t. He simply can’t understand what makes him so different from his sister. How is it that she can always persuade Dolokhov to spend time with them, but Anatole never can? Sometimes, it sends an inexplicable wave of irritation through him. Dolokhov ought to take him seriously. They all ought to. 

Still, despite feeling like something of an annoyance to his older sister and their friends, Paris is still worlds better than being at home. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand his parents now, with their rules and their dignity and their family name. No, he much prefers being here with his friends, where he doesn’t have a care in the world. As long as they have money for vodka and his father continues to intervene whenever his schoolwork is proving less than satisfactory, he couldn’t be happier. 

It’s one of those lazy afternoons he adores, where he’s lounging on the windowsill in the warm sunlight and plucking absentmindedly at the strings of his violin. Pierre and Hélène are out, and the only other person in the room is Dolokhov, flipping through the pages of some textbook from the armchair. 

Anatole gives a vague hum and glances out the window at the street below. “They’ve been gone quite a while,” he remarks, for conversation’s sake. He doesn’t like silence. 

Dolokhov doesn’t look up from his book. “I suppose so,” he says, tone bored. 

Anatole smiles and swings over on the windowsill to look at him. “You aren’t curious? You don’t wonder where they could be?”

Satisfyingly, Dolokhov glances up, meeting his eyes with a flat stare. “No,” he says slowly, although Anatole suspects he isn’t entirely telling the truth. “Why should I?”

Anatole’s smile broadens. Successfully getting on Fyodor’s nerves is one of his favourite pastimes. “Oh, I don’t know. You and Lena seem to have been awfully close lately. I’d hate to think you’re jealous.”

Dolokhov’s expression twists for a moment, as though he’s struggling to know whether to think of a harsh retort or just to ignore him, before he seems to decide that Anatole is only trying to get a reaction out of him, and he turns back to his book. 

Anatole’s smile vanishes. That isn’t how he wanted him to respond. 

“Why don’t you sit with me?” he says, trying a different tactic. “You’ve been staring at that book for far too long. The examinations are over, aren’t they?” Dolokhov looks up at him again, and Anatole waves him over. “It’s a lovely day. And you can see all of Paris from here. Or are you scared?” he adds, teasing.

Dolokhov’s mouth twists into something very nearly a smile. “I’m not scared,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I just happen to like reading.”

Anatole scoffs. “That’s awfully boring of you.” He grins, struck by another idea, and closes his eyes, trying to focus on summoning a rush of magic. He’s never been particularly good at spells, but he does enjoy hexes and simple tricks. He considers magic less of a skill to be taught and more of a party trick that ought to be used to entertain one’s friends. 

The familiar warmth rushes through his fingertips and then, in a moment, the book in Fyodor’s hand slams shut and flies out of his hands. 

Anatole grins. “Lena showed me that,” he says proudly. 

Dolokhov shakes his head, though he’s smiling. “If only you would put that much effort into your studies,” he teases, and goes over to the windowsill, pushing him gently aside. “Move over, won’t you?” He sits down and swings his legs over so that they’re hanging above the ground. Anatole gives a satisfied smile. 

“Well, why should I waste time on my studies?” he asks sincerely, leaning back. “It’s all nonsense. Papa doesn’t really care about it, anyway. It’s Lena who’s the talented one. Papa wants her to go on to do great things. As for me — he couldn’t care less, so long as I’m not getting into too much trouble.”

“Ah,” Dolokhov says. “Well, you do spend an awful lot of time with me. That’s certainly trouble. What do you think your father would say if he knew about all the commoner’s magic you bully me into showing you?”

“But I like that. It’s different. I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

Dolokhov laughs and shakes his head. “Of course you don’t.”

Anatole can’t help stiffening a little at his tone. If Fyodor thinks so little of the upper class, then why does he seem to think so highly of Elena? What makes her so different from Anatole?

He bites his lip and glances down at the street below. “There’s Lena,” he says, pointing, and can’t help a wave of vicious satisfaction when he sees how quickly Dolokhov arches his neck to see her. 

“My mistake,” he says quietly, smiling. “It wasn’t her at all.”

Dolokhov makes a disinterested sound and leans back against the window frame, though Anatole knows it’s false. Dolokhov thinks very highly of Hélène. That really shouldn’t upset him as much as it does. Still, Anatole is a little hurt, and that makes him a little cruel. 

“You know she’ll never marry you,” he says suddenly, turning to him. “Don’t you?”

Dolokhov’s eyes widen a little, and Anatole can almost see him struggling to contain his emotion. 

“Our father would never allow it,” he continues, determined to get some sort of reaction out of him. “You may as well stop looking at her the way you do. She’d never settle for someone like you.”

It seems to be that which makes Dolokhov truly angry. Before Anatole even has a chance to react to the glint in his eye, a rush of energy shakes the very walls of the apartment, and Anatole yelps and clings to the window frame for dear life. 

A moment later, the tremor subsides, and Anatole glances up at Dolokhov with a scowl. “Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “I could have fallen out of the window. What did you do that for?”

Dolokhov rolls his eyes and stands, turning away from him. “You’re such a brat. You know that?” 

Anatole purses his lips and looks away, stung. They’re supposed to be friends, aren’t they? Pouting, he stands and shoves past him. “I’m going to find Lena and Pierre,” he snaps.

***

Later that evening, after Hélène and Pierre return home and all four of them are thoroughly tipsy, the tension begins to ease. Anatole hardly remembers their conversation earlier in the day, and all he knows is that he’s with his friends and he’s perfectly happy. 

Maybe it’s a desire to make amends after their argument, but Anatole sits down beside Fyodor and gives him a grin. 

“You know,” he says, nudging him, “I found a book on summonings today.” He holds the worn, leather-bound book up for him to see. 

Dolokhov raises his eyebrows, and Anatole knows he’s not particularly interested. “Summonings don’t work, Anatole,” he says flatly. “Even you know that.”

Anatole rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a bore,” he complains. “It’ll be fun. Besides, you’re the best at magic out of all of us.” His grin returns. “Maybe we’ll be able to summon a spirit to put you in a better mood.”

Dolokhov gives him a lazy grin. “I have all the spirits I need right here, thank you very much.”

Anatole is just about to give up when his sister looks over. “Are you planning something over there?” she calls with a laugh. 

“Your brother wants to try summoning a spirit,” Dolokhov says, and Anatole pouts at the condescending tone of his voice. 

“Oh! Yes, we must,” Hélène declares, and tugs on Pierre’s arm. “Come on, Petrushka, we’re going to perform a summoning!”

It’s remarkable, Anatole thinks, how Hélène doesn’t need magic to cast a spell on Dolokhov. His expression changes in an instant, and Anatole has to force himself not to roll his eyes. 

“Alright, alright,” Dolokhov says reluctantly, and snatches the book from Anatole. Suddenly, Anatole finds he isn’t half as enthusiastic about the idea. He purses his lips and slumps into an armchair, determined to sulk for the rest of the evening. The others pay no attention to him. 

Dolokhov flicks through the pages of the book, and Anatole tries not to think about the way his expression seems to light up when Elena puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“There,” Hélène says, pointing at one of the pages. “Let’s try this one.”

Dolokhov laughs quietly. “You know we’d all be expelled if we were caught doing this,” he says, though it’s clear he has no intention of stopping them. 

“Of course,” Hélène says, and smiles. “So let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘sorry we made you wait a month amélie is lazy lol’  
> -amélie, when asked what the notes should be
> 
> hannah xx


	5. Chapter 5

It’s possibly the worst idea the three of them have ever had, because Fedya isn’t going to take any of the credit for this one. At the same time, though, it isn’t as if he’s planning to stop this foolhardy plan either. Summonings are a dangerous kind of magic, reserved for masters, or at the very least, for people who’ve completed their magical education.

But they’ve talked him into it now, Elena with her glittering eyes, and Anatole, incorrigible and completely undeniable. Fedya studies the page with the incantation, trying to memorize every word, the pronunciation of every symbol. Once this starts, he won’t have the luxury of being able to pause and check his work.

Across the room, Pierre and Elena are sketching a circle in chalk on the carpet. He’s hovering anxiously next to her, peering over her shoulder as Elena joins the two ends of the circle, hands steady and sure. She starts on the sigil that will keep the spirit they summon in place, and Pierre leans down to correct a detail. Their hands brush against each other. Fedya scowls, feeling a hot flame spring to life in his gut. 

“Distracted?”

Fedya twitches, surprised by the sound of Anatole’s voice in his ear. He narrows his eyes and turns to look at him. “Don’t you have something to do? Aren’t you supposed to be finding the candles?”

“Candles?” Anatole cocks his head to the side, questioning.

“Candles.” He almost sighs at that, and points to a key passage in the book. “To put around the edge of the circle? So that the spirit will be repulsed by the cleansing power of the flame and of the Lord Our God – “ he quotes, voice dry, “and not rip our intestines out through our throats?”

Anatole blanches. “Right. Candles.”

Fedya shakes his head, almost amused, and goes back to studying the characters of the incantation. He can hardly concentrate on it, too busy thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, and distracted from that by the way Pierre is smiling at Elena.

It’s not as if he hasn’t noticed. Even Elena herself seems to be paying more attention to Pierre these days. And it isn’t fair. Fedya isn’t clever like Pierre is; he knows that, and so he has to spend more time studying just to get by, to stay in school at all. It’s really no wonder that Elena’s attention is elsewhere. 

It’s not a kind thought, but he can’t help wondering if Elena is using Pierre to fill the time. To keep herself distracted. Just while he’s busy. 

If that isn’t it, he isn’t sure what he’ll do.

The door slams closed, and Anatole hurries back in, setting an armful of candles down on the table in front of him. “Candles!” he says, with a proud smile on his face, and plops back down beside him. “Are you finished? Is it ready?”

Not for the first time, Fedya thinks that Anatole never really has a proper amount of respect for the seriousness of things.

“Don’t rush me.” Fedya makes a show of studying the text, waiting until he can feel the attention of everyone in the room firmly on him. Finally, he closes the book. “Alright. Let’s begin.”

This might be the best chance he’s had in a while to get Elena’s attention firmly back on him. Where it’s supposed to be. After all, he’s no worse than some nobleman’s bastard son. Surely he can edge out such meager competition as Pierre. So he’s going to have to put on a bit of a show. 

And if it’s a little dangerous, if it’s just past the edge of what he feels he can manage confidently, well, that’s just the risk he’s taking.

***

They sit along the edges of the circle, candles flickering between them, casting odd, grotesque shadows across their faces and up towards the ceiling. Elena and Pierre are sitting together, he notices, with a flicker of envy in the pit of his stomach. He’s gravitating towards her, too, which is more irritating than it has any right to be. They’re all smiling at each other, but there’s a tense edge to it. If he looks close enough, he’s almost certain he can see fear in their eyes. If they were looking, they might see something similar in his own. Fedya isn’t sure he blames them. What they’re trying to do is dangerous, and more than that, completely against the rules. Not that any of them have ever cared much about that.

He clears his throat and flips back to the correct page.

“Hurry up, will you? Don’t keep us waiting all night.” Anatole gives a nervous little chuckle and edges away from the candle beside him. He fusses with his sleeves.

“Don’t rush him.” It’s Pierre, surprisingly, gaze steady. Elena gives him an approving look. Fedya’s feelings about that are so entirely mixed.

But it’s easier to tell now, how uneasy they all are. Anatole falls into an uncharacteristic silence, eyes darting between their faces and the center of the circle, and he can’t stop moving. Even Elena, usually so unflappable, bites at her lip until a bead of blood wells up on her bottom lip. Fedya can’t help feeling that they’re getting in over their head.

He has to impress Elena, though. He has to show her that there’s something worth seeing in him. This is the best bad idea he has.

Fedya takes a deep breath, fingers tightening on the spine of the book. He glances around the circle one more time and starts to read.

It’s a difficult incantation, more difficult than anything he’s attempted to perform before. Fedya has to focus all his concentration on the words, but mostly on channeling the magic bubbling up inside him. Something inside him is responding to this kind of magic, more than others. How much of that is due to the fact that he’s always relished doing things he knows he shouldn’t? And how much of it is because it’s not proper, classical magic? Whatever the reason, he feels electrified, more awake than he ever has before.

The window panes rattle, and someone lets out a nervous laugh. In the same moment, the candles flicker and gutter in an invisible wind.

It takes a moment for Fedya to realize that he’s stopped reading. 

“Are you sure you can handle this?” That’s Elena, watching him with a cool expression on her face. She glances over at Pierre appraisingly, and Fedya’s throat tightens up. Is she playing them off each other? Is that what she’s doing? 

“I’m fine,” he snaps, and picks up the book again. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let someone like Pierre throw him for a loop. He starts to read again, confidence on the words slipping. He has an audience, he reminds himself. He has to get this right.

As he reads, he can’t help noticing that the room is getting darker, and colder. The candles start to dim, though the flames stay strong. It’s as if something is numbing their awareness of the light. Is that to be expected?

Then the sigil at the center of the circle starts pulsing with a sickly green light.

His eyes widen, and his grip tightens on the pages of the book. It’s working. That’s possibly one of the worst outcomes. If it hadn’t worked, if he hadn’t done it right, they could have all gone home disappointed. They wouldn’t have had to deal with the aftermath.

“Fedya?” Anatole’s voice is thin and nervous. “What’s happening?”

He takes a breath, gaze fixed on the center of the circle. “Hush.” He can’t afford any distractions, not now.

There’s a haze rising from it now, smelling of a woman’s perfume, floral and far too sweet. Fedya squints through the mist, trying to make out the shape taking form in the midst of it. It’s thrashing and twisting unnaturally, and he’s starting to feel an unbearable pressure against the inside of his skull. There’s something like the feeling of a scream. It’s the only way he can think to describe it. 

A face looms out of the mist, mouth pulling wide in the shape of a shriek. Fedya reels back, clutching the book to his chest, but it doesn’t go any farther than the edge of the circle. It strains against the invisible boundary, smoky fists pounding against it.

They’re fine, then. They’ve succeeded.

“What is it?” Pierre leans forward, spectacles falling down his nose. He pushes them up with one thick finger, squinting at the spirit. Elena pulls him back, away from the edge of the circle.

It’s searching for a weakness, now, battering against the edges. Fedya glances back down at the pages, heart thudding against his ribs. Did he forget anything?

He spots the flaw in the construction a second before the spirit does. Fedya starts reading again, frantic, tripping over the words.

“Fedya? Fedya!” The spirit is shrieking again, shrill and earsplitting, but he can just make out Elena’s voice through it. He can’t afford to fail. 

The spirit smashes through the barrier, still keening, hands stretching out towards his face. Fedya cries out and falls back, scrambling backwards, the book falling to the side. But before he can get anywhere, before he can spit out a spell, he’s knocked flat against the floor, pain exploding across his face.

The pain transports him out of himself. Fedya watches from above, dispassionate and uncaring, feeling the pain as a ghost, an echo of something that should be bothering him more. He watches as the spirit pulls his body up by the chest, a ghostly hand reaching through him, its gnashing teeth over his face. He hears his own screams from a distance, sees himself thrashing and wailing in pain. He sees Pierre and Anatole huddled together at the other end of the room.

Then he sees Elena drag herself free and go for the book. The spirit releases him, and suddenly, he’s back in his body again, the left side of his face white-hot with a pain that seems to rip right through him. Fedya can’t stop screaming. He clutches at his face, eyes closed.

He doesn’t see Elena pick up the book. He doesn’t see the spell that strikes the spirit on the side and sends it shrieking out into the night, breaking a window on its way.

Suddenly, everything is quiet, but all Fedya can think is that no one can see him like this.

He hauls himself to his feet, ignoring Elena’s stricken expression and flees into the night.

At Bald Hills, Mary wakes with a start. Something evil has returned.

It takes everyone a few moments to recover from the shock. The apartment is deathly silent, and all Anatole is aware of is a faint ringing in his ears. He realises distantly that he’s trembling. He meets his sister’s eyes, and she looks just as shaken as he is.

After a moment or two, inexplicably, he lets out a wild, near-hysterical laugh. The others stare at him, but he can’t help it. His heart is racing, and he has no idea what he’s just witnessed, and all he can think of is to laugh and to hope the others will, too.

But his friends stay quiet, and after a few moments, he stops laughing, letting the room fall into an eerie silence again.

They stay like that for a little while longer, until Elena finally speaks up.

‘Where’s Fedya?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp so that happened
> 
> your comments, kudos, ungodly shrieks, etc make our hearts sing!


	6. Chapter 6

Anatole has never really thought about consequences before.

As a child, they’d never seemed real. Certainly, misbehaviour resulted in a slap on the wrist or a few harsh words from his governess, but at the end of the day, he was still a prince, and everyone still loved him.

Seeing his classmates turn away from him, scowl at him, ignore him altogether, is something very new to him.

Word spreads quickly. The headmaster speaks with him, tells him he’s greatly disappointed in him, that he’s writing home to his father. For once, Anatole finds he regrets it all. He didn’t mean to cause all this fuss. He only wanted a bit of fun. And now his friends are ignoring him, and the school doesn’t want him, and even his sister is miserable.

Still, he doesn’t really realize just how far things have gone until he is allowed to return to school. The first classes of the day go by in a blur, and he doesn’t see his sister until the lunch hour. Anatole makes his way to the entrance to the school to find her, and finds that it’s a slower walk than usual. Where normally other students would make room for him, would almost clear a path, now he finds himself jostled by elbows and bags, and wilting under the weight of their gazes.

It’s uncomfortable, and the moment he sees the look on Hélène’s face, all pinched features and tightly controlled smiles, Anatole feels a jolt of shock. Somehow, he hadn’t expected this to touch her. Since they were children together, it’s always seemed that Hélène is above such things, that what can drag others down into the mud isn’t capable of sullying her.

Seeing that he’s wrong about that is a shock he can’t quite stomach.

“Toto,” she calls, and pulls him in by the hands. After a moment, she glances around and releases him, and he feels a pang at that. It’s clever. They don’t need any more rumors floating around, and she’s always been more clever about image than he. But the simple act of consolation, of holding his sister’s hands – well. He’s not sure that’s something he thought he’d be losing.

But it’s just for now. Soon everything will go back to the way it was. Won’t it?

Hélène’s gaze is still on him, sharp and worried. “Have you seen Dolokhov today?” she asks, voice low. “He was supposed to be in my first subject, but he wasn’t. And usually we walk together, but I can’t find him, and it’s – it’s not like him.”

Anatole thinks back. How would things normally go? He’d walk with Elena and Fyodor if he saw them in the hallways, or usually they would find a time to eat lunch together. But he’s here now, and Elena is here, and Fyodor, usually so punctual, is nowhere to be seen.

“No,” he says, and pointedly ignores the way his stomach twists at that realization. “No, I haven’t seen him today at all.”

Hélène is right. It isn’t like Fyodor. Anatole has always known him to be dedicated, dedicated to a fault, never one to slack at school even when drinking or going out is so much more interesting. Even ill, Anatole hasn’t known him to miss a day of classes.

His heart shudders against his ribs, remembering the way Fyodor had fled without letting a one of them see his face, and how he hasn’t been back to the apartment since..

“Do you think he’s alright?” he asks.

Hélène hesitates, and that’s the worst answer she could have given.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. That can’t be right. His sister is the clever one. She always knows. Hélène bites at her lip, worrying at the delicate skin. “Someone ought to make sure. But I’m sure he doesn’t want to speak to me.”

Anatole stares. It takes a moment for him to find his voice at all. “What? Don’t be stupid. He loves you. Er – you’re the closest to him of any of us.” Not Pierre, and certainly not himself. For all that they’re all friends, Anatole thinks he can feel Fyodor holding them at arm’s length, and if he weren’t so worried, that thought might hurt.

Worrying over Fyodor is an entirely new sensation, but then, today has been full of those.

Hélène shakes her head. “He’s not going to want to see me.” The repetition is more firm this time. “He – I know he has feelings for me, and he’s not going to let me see him at all. Not if he’s hurting. He’s like that. Won’t let anyone in.” She lets out a little laugh that’s tinged with bitterness and just on the edge of desolation. “Stupid bastard.”

“I’ll go,” Anatole says, and blinks, startled at the words. Then the thoughts start to settle a little. He can’t let his sister, the clever one, be hurt. Not when she’s always tried to keep him out of harm’s way.

She blinks up at him, and the fact that her eyes are wet only cements the decision. “You will?” Hélène reaches for his hands and squeezes them tight. “Go. Be careful.”

Anatole gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile and turns to go. This is for his sister. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that it’s a little bit for him as well. He and Fyodor argue, yes, but he may very well be his only friend left, and he can’t let him disappear. Not now. Not when it seems like he’s only just begun to understand him.

***

He’s half-forgotten that Fyodor has an apartment in Paris at all. Fyodor spends – or rather, he used to spend – so much time with the Kuragins at their apartment that it hardly seemed to matter where he was staying. But still, Anatole needs to find his friend. He can’t just let him disappear, even if he suspects he’s unwelcome.

Finally, he finds Fyodor’s home and knocks hesitantly at the door, biting his lip. ‘Fedya?’ he calls.

He’s left standing there for a long time, wondering if perhaps Fyodor isn’t home at all. It doesn’t seem like the kind of place he’d expect to find him, the building old, the paint cracking, and everything in a general state of disrepair. It doesn’t seem like Fyodor at all.

But then, Fyodor isn’t wealthy. He’s not at school with his own family’s money. Sometimes Anatole forgets that. But still, this isn’t the kind of place one wants to find – a friend? Is that what they are? It’s hard to tell with him.

Anatole hesitates. Maybe he won’t be welcome here. But just as he begins to turn away, the door opens, just slightly.

Fyodor looks out, and it takes a moment to recognize him at all. He’s in shadow, certainly, but he’s hiding half his face, hunching his shoulders low and hiding behind his eyes. Anatole hesitates. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here at all.

“What do you want?” Fyodor’s voice is dull, flat, but Anatole thinks he can sense just a little hurt in it, too.

He shifts his feet and makes the decision. He isn’t going to just let this go. “Where have you been?” Anatole says, trying to push open the door and step inside, though Fyodor stops him. He takes a step away, abashed. “Lena and I have been so worried. Even Pierre wants to know where you are. School is awfully lonely without you. And I think, now, you’re the only one there who’ll still talk to me after all this.”

There’s a scoff. “I don’t want to talk to you any more than the rest of them.”

That stings a little, and Anatole stiffens instinctively. “Why aren’t you at school?” he says, voice a little colder. Something about this is hitting right in the pit of his stomach, and he can’t understand why. It’s Fyodor that needs them. He’s doing him a favor, coming here like this. It’s easier to think of that way.

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, Fyodor seems to be considering slamming the door on him. 

“I’ve been expelled,” he says finally, and tries to close the door, but Anatole sticks his foot out to stop him. 

“What do you mean, you’ve been expelled?” He lets out a nervous laugh. Expelled? Not possible. What will they do without him to keep them all in line? What will he do? ‘They can’t have expelled you. You’re too talented. Lena and I–”

“You and your sister have a wealthy father who’ll go to any lengths to keep his family from ruin,’ Fyodor snaps. ‘Of course you two were lucky enough to get out of it unscathed. They don’t want me here anymore. I leave tomorrow morning.”

And there’s nothing they can do to stop it. For a moment, Anatole thinks about writing to his father, begging him to speak to the headmaster, to intervene. But he’d have to say why, and convince his father, and he’s not sure he can do that, even for himself. All he’s certain of is that he can’t let Fyodor leave without a fight.

Anatole bites his lip, trying to get a better look at him in the darkness of the apartment. ‘Unscathed?’ he repeats uncertainly. ‘What do you mean by that?’

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. 

‘Never you mind,’ he growls, and Anatole doesn’t think he’s ever heard Fyodor sound so miserable and so angry before. “Go. I don’t want you here. I need to pack my things.”

Anatole wavers. “But you’re my friend,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling horribly vulnerable. Fyodor is his friend. Somehow, he’s his friend, and Anatole has only just begun to understand what all that might mean, and now he’s leaving, maybe for good.

Fyodor gives a harsh laugh, and Anatole almost shudders at how cruel it sounds, and how strangely hurt. “Goodbye, Anatole,” he says, and slams the door on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Your authors thrive on feedback, kudos, comments, and the like!


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